


Blue Hour

by exoscopy



Category: Problem Sleuth (Webcomic)
Genre: M/M, Mobsterswitch
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-11
Updated: 2011-10-11
Packaged: 2018-02-08 10:33:55
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,784
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1937622
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/exoscopy/pseuds/exoscopy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A gumshoe and a mobster walk into a bar, and everyone can play nice when there's a bottle of White Hoofbeast involved.</p><p>(Or, how Peccant Scofflaw and Snooping Scout first met.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Blue Hour

Your name is Snooping Scout, and you haven’t had enough bourbon to deal with this.

 

Fucking _Snowman_. Fucking Snowman and her fucking _shiny hat_.

 

The others were pissed, of course, but no one was as pissed as you. You’d done most of the legwork on this case – sure, it had been Detective’s plan, but you’d been the one running around with one ear out. You could’ve _lost_ that fucking ear if anyone knew what you were up to – not that they ever would, you fit in too well, the talk came easy to you – and then what would Snowman have fucking done?

 

Built you a robot ear, probably. Sent to you wrapped up all nicely and by special courier, the kind that you have to sign for personally. Bitch. 

 

So you slunk off to one of the seedy dives that took your fancy, blind with fury, brushing off Demoman’s attempts to calm you down – none of them had the same bubbling rage that you have in your skull, that you still have now, turning your vision fucking purple. Or maybe that’s the shitty lighting in this bar. When Snooping Scout picks a seedy dive he picks one that could rival the fucking agricultural vault of Prospit for yield and pest resistance. 

 

There’s a bit of a commotion behind you but you don’t pay it any mind; would be more of a shock if the night went by without a commotion. You pick absently at your elbow where your sleeve has stuck to the scratched, gouged bar and flick at the chipped glass. You can still see the stains on it from the last poor bastard who tried to get fried here, and probably only got a skullsplitter of a headache for it.

 

Only the bar suddenly goes silent, and that’s when you turn around, and that’s also when a little part of your gut goes _fuck shit fuck_. Because looking sharp in the doorway is the leader of the Twilight Scoundrels– no other gang wears that exact shade of black, where in some lights it’s practically evening-sky blue.

“No, no, calm down,” Peccant Scofflaw says, “just here for drinks, folks, no need to start a fanfare or anythin’ like that. I’ve got the same right to pick my poison as any of you, right?” He throws his head back and laughs, a mellow guffaw. Scofflaw has lots of laughs. You don’t like any of them, but you think you dislike this one a little less than his others. At least it sounds like a real laugh, and doesn’t feel like bucket of ice down your neck. You turn slowly back around, hoping he doesn’t recognize you.

 

You have run into Scofflaw precisely twice so far, and each time he gets a little closer.

 

Eventually the bar settles back down, really quiet, hushed almost. Until:

 

“Hey! Scout!”

 

You don’t so much as twitch. You wouldn’t cut yourself around a shark, so you don’t show panic around a member of the Twilight Scoundrels either. Especially not Peccant Scofflaw. The bastard’s got a sense of humour that tends to involve cheesegraters and barrels of acid, often together.

 

“Over here, scout,” Scofflaw calls again, _next to your fucking ear_. You turn around real slow and easy.

“You talkin’ to me?” you say, and Scofflaw’s weird grin makes you shift on your chair. Something about that grin that makes you think of broken doors and really rusty razors. “Yeah, sure.” He waves expansively and slings his arm around your shoulders. You shrug him off. Out of the corner of your vision you see him make a face, and then he grins again, undeterred. “What’s your name, scout?” You could sigh in relief. You haven’t blown your cover, Scofflaw’s just talking down at you. Arsehole.

“Slogger,” you mutter, “Surly Slogger.”

“Slogger.” He rolls the r around his mouth like it was smoke from a good cigar. “I like it. Care to lend us a smoke, Slogger?”

 

You pass one over mutely. Fuck it, you don’t want to; they’re _your_ smokes, bought on your measly sleuth’s salary, and the horrorterrors only know Scofflaw could afford to buy his own. But instead he takes yours, and lights up with a little snap. You glare at your drink. 

 

“You seem a little down, scout,” he says casually, from around _your_ smoke, propping one elbow on the bar. “Why you here all on your own?” He tips his hat out of the way and you get to see his face, big and blunt and cheerful except for that fucking grin. It throws everything out of balance; you could honestly never have picked his face from some chump on the street if it wasn’t for the grin. It’s feral, that’s the word for it – like the occasional rabid dog in your childhood slum, frothing at the mouth and wild in the eyes and twitching. Scofflaw’s grin is like that, but without the frothing. You aren’t sure if that makes it more or less scary.

 

“Dames,” you grunt.

“Ain’t that right,” Scofflaw sighs, “ _dames_.” He waves a hand. “Should have known.” He claps you on the shoulder. You shift out from under him again and wonder irritably why he keeps touching you. “Come over! I’ll buy you all the poison you need. Can never have enough whiskey when it comes to dame problems. Bartender, the regular!” ‘The regular’ gets shoved unceremoniously into his hand and he strides off, whistling.

 

You slither off your stool and follow. When Peccant Scofflaw invites you to have a drink, you have a fucking drink and you say your fucking please and thank yous. Also, you really can’t afford good whiskey and whatever Scofflaw's dollar buys will probably be fucking fantastic.

 

The bastard doesn’t even have a table, just that one miraculously clears by the time you’ve reached it, and you sink down uncomfortably opposite him and look around the bar. People don’t meet your eyes. Peccant Scofflaw doesn’t like people who stare, they say, and you can’t blame them. You’re pretty fond of your eyes yourself. 

 

He brandishes a bottle of White Hoofbeast, 20 years old if it’s a day. You give a surly nod in response to his quizzically raised eyebrow, and he eases back in his chair.

“So, scout – Slogger, sorry,” he says, looking kind of interested, “what do you do for an honest living?” You can’t tell if he’s doing this on purpose, but he’s not gonna see you sweat.

“I play jazz.”

“That so,” he echoes, raising an eyebrow. “Do you play well?”

 

Needled, you snap, “Course I play fucking well, wouldn’t be playing for a living if I wasn’t.” You do. You could play the piano until your fingers were worn down to nubs and you’d still be better than half the barroom hacks in this city.

“Easy!” He tosses his open hands in the air. “Was just asking. Well, I’d like to come see you play sometime. So tell me about this dame,” he says conspiratorially, leaning forward. “She trouble?”  
“Like nothing else.” You snort. He pours you a drink and waggles his eyebrows cheerfully. You can’t help but stare. It’s such a fucking stupid thing to see on Peccant ‘he built this fucking city’ Scofflaw, mobster and total maniac.

“So tell me all about her,” he says, _beaming_. And despite your better judgment, you do.

 

It comes pouring out in a wave of bitter bile, though you don’t mention names and try to make it not too obvious who you’re talking about: just some dame who messes up your work, makes your life hard, drives you fucking loony.

“And all she has to do is fucking _smile_ and-”

“Yeah-” Scofflaw nods along and laughs at the right places and you swear to fucking god you could kill him for being such a damn good listener, because in his steady stream of ‘uh-huh’s and ‘yeah’s it never stops, like he’s turning the faucet wider and wider whenever the stream starts running low.  
“She doesn’t fucking _need_ to, it’s not as if she needs the good PA, everyone would fucking slobber over her even if she was caught arse deep in shifty business-” Not that you’re so sure she hasn’t been, and you’re just waiting on the day you can prove it, pull the huge bitch down from her pedestal.

“Yeah, true, true-”

“Swear to the horrorterrors she’s just in it especially to make our life a fucking hell-”

“Our?”

 

You don’t even notice it at first, you just keep going like the unstoppable hurricane of rage that you are. “-thinks she can steal all our hard work, fuck her, _fuck-_ ”

“There you go again,” Scofflaw murmurs. “Our?” You blink, caught off guard.

“Rest of the crew,” you fumble out, and gulp down some more whiskey.

“Oh, yes.” Scofflaw nods. “You mean like your band, don’t you?”

“Yeah,” you say, and you can’t remember if you mentioned them or not but who cares, anyone could make that mistake, shouldn’t mean a thing.

 

The conversation drops off for a bit. You drain the rest of your glass, savouring the mellow burn, while Scofflaw does – something. His head is down and he looks like he’s thinking. Well, let him.

 “Thing is, sometimes you just need a steady hand and you can work ‘em round,” Scofflaw says eventually, pouring you another drink. “Patience and planning, that’s all. Just like dealing with the law, right?” Is he fucking with you?

“Haven’t had any trouble of that sort,” you say shortly, and Scofflaw grins.

“Oh, just me, huh? Well, I never would’ve thought of that.” He nods sagely. “You being a good law-abiding jazz musician and all. Are you scared of me, scout?”

“No,” you say, “as long as you keep pouring the whiskey, I don’t give a fuck.”

 “Well,” he says, “then I’d better keep the whiskey flowing, hadn’t I?” He’s grinning fit to split his face, like it’s all some big fucking joke at his expense.

 

You drink his whiskey until an hour you can’t even name, and after a while it almost becomes comfortable. At some time he gets up to buy more whiskey and you find yourself wondering what the fuck you’re doing, wagging chins with Peccant fucking Scofflaw. Detective would tear you a new earhole for this – all without raising his voice. But it’s not like you could blow your cover here and now, in the middle of this seedy fucking dive: most of the people have heard of Dead-eyed Detective or, better, seen him drag their buddies off in cuffs. They’d be only too happy to do the same to a buddy of Detective’s, only your journey would finish in the river rather than the slammer.

 

That’s what you tell yourself, and when Scofflaw comes back you drink more of his booze and swap half-assed insults with him. It’s not awkward except when he tries to crack jokes, because there’s such a thing as coffin humour but Scofflaw’s are more like _ten-story-mausoleum-built-of-skulls-with-skull-chandelier-and-skull-furniture-and-lots-of-black_ humour. You’re also pretty sure that they arise from personal experience. Roll film: take the floor, Peccant Scofflaw, standup comic.

“Sometimes people feel the need to scream. That’s all right. It’s therapeutic. Sometimes I think I should’ve taken up therapy instead of crime, since I seem to be so good at it.” Cue grin.

“When I was growing up I was always told: make people smile, son, then you’ll see the real person underneath. I like that advice but I’ve never managed to make it work. So far, all I’ve seen is gums.” Cue face.

“Two inmates are trying to escape from a madhouse. All they’ve got is a flashlight-” You stop him. You’ve heard that one before.

 

And so forth. What’s worst is that you laugh at some of them; they’re black as fuck and they’re not even funny. You’ve either drunk too much or Scofflaw is spiking your drink.

 

 

You can see the dark-blue light of morning once you stumble outside. Twilight, you think hazily.

 

The night air is sharp and chilly, grasping at your neck and sneaking up the frayed hems of your pants. But you’re too bent to care, full of Scofflaw’s fucking excellent bootleg and too pleasantly dazed to think about anything, even Snowman. You totter down the steps, Scofflaw just behind you, hands in his pockets and humming some smooth tune. Bastard. He’s not even half as sloshed as you.

 

“Sure you can walk?” he says, after you nearly fall over a lamppost.

“Sure. Fine.” You wave a hand and tip yourself upright. “Been full of . . . been full of worse.”

“Ha! I’ll bet.” He pauses. “Like lead?” He laughs uproariously at his own comment. You’re not really willing to call it a joke coming from Scofflaw.

“Ain’t funny, fucker,” you growl, and stumble down the sidewalk. His laughter stops abruptly. You turn around, which is a challenge, but you manage it without collapsing.

“Yeah, I’ll guess not.” He looks suddenly dejected. You blink.

 

“S’wrong with you?” you snap at him.

“Don’t know. Guess it’s a bit of a downer when a fella you’ve taken a shine to thinks you aren’t funny.” He sighs. “I was just making a joke, scout.”

“Oh.” You aren’t sure what to say.

 

His grin is sudden and sly. Your stomach roils. The alcohol sloshing around in your blood doesn’t help.

“Then again, you could show a down-in-the-dumps scofflaw how much you like his joke,” he says brightly, and closes in on you. You hold your ground; as fucking if you’re going to turn yellow when faced with a single down-in-the-dumps scofflaw. You are also probably too drunk to escape. You are full of liquid courage, paid for by him, and he’s not taking it back.

 

Not that you’d dare him to. The Twilight Scoundrels are pretty creative. It’s one of the only reasons Detective hasn’t managed to have them thrown in the slammer so far, and one of the main reasons he’s trying to.

 

Which reminds you: he’s going to give you hell for this if you tell him about it, getting close enough to the leader of the Scoundrels that you could share his booze, and not making a single attempt to arrest him. So you won’t tell Detective. This is between you and Scofflaw.

 

He leans so close you can smell the whiskey on his breath, mingling with yours; he smells like some natty cologne too, more expensive than you can afford.

“You laughing?” he says, and he’s really close to your face now. What is he doing.

“Do I look like I’m fucking laughing?”

 

And that’s when Scofflaw kisses you, right on the mouth. Before you can step back he’s grabbed you by the shoulders and – that’s tongue, that’s fucking _tongue_ – but he just clings to you, kisses you long and slow despite how you squirm and bite. He pulls back after what feels like forever and puts his forehead right against yours. Fuck.

“You laughing now?” he sort of purrs. You wrench out of his grip and stagger back from him.

“Repeat,” you say, voice a little less vehement than you’d like it to be, “do I look like I’m fucking laughing?” He just grins.

 

“Here, I’ll drive you home.” He gestures at a real gorgeous car, in the same bluish sort of black as his trenchcoat and hat. It looks nicely polished. You feel a stab of envy. You’ve always liked cars, but the only vehicle you have to your name is the crew’s van, and even if it’s sturdily built it’s never been that shiny.

“No,” you spit, “I’ll fucking walk.” You make a great show of wiping your mouth.

 

“’fraid that’s not an option, _Scout_.” All of a sudden there’s a knife pressed up in that big blood vessel in your neck, the one where you cut it deep enough and the blood just wells out like you turned on a tap. His hand is curled painfully tight in your hair. He smiles benignly. It’s the first smile you’ve seen on Scofflaw’s face that night, and you find yourself suddenly feeling like when you were seven and got caught with your pockets full of jawbreakers. You want to run. 

 

“Now,” Scofflaw says, still smiling, and nicks you with his trusty knife. You flinch; he laughs a deep and throaty laugh. It makes you think of the rattle of tools: hammers for kneecaps, pliers for nails, spanners for the little bones in your hands. And, still laughing, he leans in and licks the blood from your throat, and you snarl. But you don’t push him away.

 

“Now,” Scofflaw repeats. His white teeth aren’t so white with your blood all over them. “Get in the flivver.”

 


End file.
